


The Trouble with Angels

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley gets Aziraphale out of a spot of trouble again, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Sweet, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: When Aziraphale receives a letter stating "We know what you are", he needs Crowley's help once again to stay out of trouble.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	The Trouble with Angels

The Trouble with Angels

Crowley didn’t care for mornings at the book shop. Not that he was generally a morning person anyway, but since moving in to Aziraphale’s flat, he especially disliked mornings. It turned out that Aziraphale preferred cool nights, and the shop’s antiquated boiler took forever to heat up the huge place each day.

He hadn’t said anything yet about it, as their living arrangement was still so new – he didn’t want Aziraphale fussing over every little disagreement in their preferences. He’d already gotten fretful when Crowley suggested toning down the floral patterns on his furnishings. And he didn’t want him to think Crowley was unhappy there. 

So instead of complaining, Crowley simply stayed tightly snuggled in bed long after Aziraphale had risen, and he would wait for the boiler to warm the place up, and then slowly get up and wander into the shop’s sitting room around ten or eleven in search of something hot to drink. Aziraphale had a small dining table there, a sofa, and a kitchenette. He liked to have tea there, and always had a kettle on.

One morning when Crowley sauntered in, expecting to find the kettle boiling, he found an agitated angel instead. Aziraphale paced rapidly around the table, staring at a sheet of paper.

Crowley stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

Aziraphale kept pacing. He shook his head and muttered, “Madness. Absolute madness.” It was as if he didn’t even notice Crowley.

This was disturbing. His friend did not pace. Crowley strode over to grab him by the shoulders. “Stop it!”

“Crowley – thank goodness you’re up.” Aziraphale waved the paper in his face. “ _Look_ at this!”

“Sit down first.” Crowley guided him to the sofa and made him sit.

Aziraphale immediately tried to get up. “But my dear fellow—“

“ _No_. Bad angel. _Sit_.”

Aziraphale gulped and fidgeted, but then collapsed onto the cushions. “Oh, this is so worrisome.”

Crowley looked at the paper. It was a letter addressed to A.Z. Fell, and it read:

_Mr Fell, we know what you are. Examine the evidence provided, and prepare to meet our terms or be exposed. Come to the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens on Thursday next at midnight. Come alone._

It was not signed.

“Uh-oh.” No wonder Aziraphale was worried. “When did this come? Where’s the envelope?”

“It arrived in the morning post. There’s more on the table. We’ve got to _do_ something.”

“Yeah, yeah, calm down.” Crowley found a large manila envelope on the dining table, without a return address. Next to it lay a pile of photocopied pictures with typewritten notes.

_Exhibit A: Etching from the London Illustrated News, 1803, showing Mr. A.Z. Fell in his bookshop._

_Exhibit B: Daguerreotype dated 1849 showing A.Z. Fell outside his bookshop._

_Exhibit C: Photograph from the Times dated 1890 showing Mr. A.Z. Fell at a London book auction._

_Exhibit D: Photograph dated 1923 showing A.Z. Fell in his bookshop._

There were more – from 1958, and 1980, and a recent shot that looked as if it had been taken with a mobile phone as the angel was leaving the shop. Naturally, Aziraphale looked exactly the same age in every one. There was another note at the end stating that a thorough search of birth and death certificates for London over the past two centuries had yielded no records of any kind for Mr. A.Z. Fell.

Crowley sighed. How did Aziraphale manage to survive so long on Earth? This was hardly the first time he’d gotten himself into trouble through his own incompetence, or misguided plans. Crowley plopped onto the sofa and prepared to say _I told you so._

“Please do not say, ‘I told you so.’,” Aziraphale said.

“Right.” He had, though. More than once. They were supposed to miracle up the necessary records throughout the centuries, and were supposed to make it appear as if they were their own descendants. He’d been very careful about maintaining this façade, while obviously Aziraphale had been a tad slack.

Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs. “What am I going to do?”

“Relax, for one thing.” Crowley put a hand atop Aziraphale’s restless fingers, stopping their motion. “We can fix it.” He didn’t say “I’ll fix it”, though truthfully, that was probably how it would go. That seemed to be part of his job here on Earth, unofficially so to speak – keeping an angel out of trouble. “First we find whoever sent it and then we do a little memory alteration.”

“I’m not sure it will be that simple.” Aziraphale handed over another piece of paper. “This was also included.”

“ _Do not try to track us down. We are a vast society with a large network – doing one of us harm will not stop our plans._ “ Crowley frowned. Since when did the humans have a vast network seeking out angels? “Something’s very odd here.” 

He looked over the first page again. “ _We know what you are._ Hm. But they don’t actually call you an angel, do they?”

“I don’t believe they do.”

“So all they _really_ know is that you don’t appear to be mortal. Wonder what they think you are?” 

“I don’t care – I don’t want them thinking anything at all about me!” Aziraphale stood and started pacing again. “What if they tell the police? Or journalists? What if they put those images on that…that – whatever it is they use on computers where everyone can see it.”

Crowley sighed. When was Aziraphale going to try living in the twenty-first century? “It’s called the Internet.”

“Yes – that! Monstrous invention.”

Crowley grinned. “I helped with that one.”

Aziraphale kept pacing. “This is _not_ amusing. I don’t want to have to move again. If this gets out to the public, I’ll have to _leave_ London and start over somewhere new. I _like_ it here.” He stopped pacing and gazed out at his bookshop. “I’d have to close the shop and start over. I _can’t_ do it.”

“You won’t have to.” Honestly, they were capable of dealing with it by magical means. He hoped. “Go to the park on Thursday and see what they want. Probably money – just pay them off.”

At least, he hoped that was all they wanted, and they weren’t planning to lure Aziraphale into some sort of trap. 

“It’s dangerous,” Aziraphale said as if reading his mind. “Midnight, all alone – who knows how many of them there are.”

“ _Not_ alone. I’ll be there.”

“The letter says I’m to come alone. If they see you, they might not be pleasant.”

“They won’t see me.” Crowley stepped close to Aziraphale, took him by the shoulders, and kissed his forehead. “It’s all going to be fine.” He released his hold. “Now then, where’s my morning tea?”

♦

Aziraphale had more than one worry on this mind over the next two days, while waiting for Thursday to come round. Yes, the meeting was his main concern, but his second was more important. His other worry was Crowley.

He worried his friend wasn’t happy at the bookshop, not since he’d moved in. Every day when Crowley finally got up and came down for tea, he was touchy and irritable. He couldn’t think why. They slept together – Aziraphale had a lovely big four-poster bed – and they lay in each other’s arms all night long, and Crowley seemed to like that. Aziraphale certainly did.

Their closeness since averting Armageddon was wonderful, with more touches and embraces and light kisses than Aziraphale had ever expected. He loved Crowley, and he knew that love was returned. Yet always there was an element of dissatisfaction every time a new day began. What on Earth was the matter? Did he regret moving in? He didn’t act as if he did, yet something was amiss, and Aziraphale worried about it excessively. 

He was quite good at worrying over Crowley.

♦

Aziraphale didn’t particularly enjoy being outside at night in uninhabited places, and as midnight neared, Kensington Gardens was decidedly uninhabited.

He stood, as directed, near the statue of Peter Pan. He nervously fingered his lapels. _No reason to be nervous_ , he tried to convince himself. Angels could deal with humans. And Crowley was near to hand, though well hidden. Still. How many members of this society would turn up? What if it were _too_ many?

He swallowed hard as he checked his pocket watch. 12:02. They were late.

Just as he hoped that no one would turn up, Aziraphale heard rustling leaves. Then a man stepped our between two bushes. A twig snapped as a second man showed himself. Then more rustling behind him – Aziraphale spun round to see four more people, at least two of whom were women. They spread out, circling him, and each one held one hand behind their backs.

A bead of perspiration trickled down his brow. What were they holding? Surely not guns? That could be disastrous.

They all came to a halt as one man stepped forward. “So good of you to come, Mr. Fell.”

“You gave me little choice.” Where was Crowley lurking? “What do you want? Is it money?” He dearly hoped all they wanted was money – he could miracle up any sum at all.

“No. We don’t want money.”

_Oh, dear_. “Well, then, what will it take to make you leave me alone?”

“Nothing.” The man’s voice took on a more sinister tone, and the rest of the gang moved in closer on all sides. “You see, we know what you are, and we don’t leave your kind alone, _creature of the night_.”

“Sorry?” Now he felt completely puzzled. “What do you mean, creature of the night?” He was a being of the light, for Heaven’s sake.

“True, you seem able to live in the daylight. We have learned that some of your kind can dwell outside without harm from sunlight. But you are still an evil fiend.”

Aziraphale’s nerves vanished. Now he merely felt annoyed. Surely these fools didn’t believe him to be a demon. They’d got the wrong one. “I am not a—“

“Vampire!” cried the leader. He whipped his arm from behind his back in unison with the others. They all held long, pointed stakes. “Destroy him!”

They rushed forward. Aziraphale gasped, unsure what to do as they raised their arms overhead to strike -- he had no time to think.

And then the arms came down holding, instead of stakes, nothing more deadly than floral bouquets.

A few flowers struck Aziraphale’s coat as the gang members abruptly halted, staring blankly at the bouquets.

“What--?” The leader stepped back. Two of the gang ran off. “How did—“

Another man suddenly shrieked. “My clothes!” He stood completely naked. He darted away through the shrubs.

Crowley sauntered into view. “I believe you are done here.” He walked up to the leader, snapped off his sunglasses, and hissed at him.

“Retreat!” the man shouted, and he and the rest dashed away. 

Aziraphale breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Crowley put his sunglasses back on. “Let’s hope they got the message that it’s best to leave you alone.”

As they strolled out of the park, Aziraphale said, “Did you hear what that fellow called me?”

Crowley smiled. “A vampire. Have you been keeping deep dark secrets from me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They must have assumed only vampires can be immortal. What nonsense. No such thing, anyway.” He paused. “Is there?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Crowley replied. “And I should know – if there were, they’d certainly come from down below.”

They reached the Bentley and climbed in. As Crowley sped through the streets, he asked, “Do you think I scared them off for good? Maybe I should have done more.”

“No, it was perfect. The flowers were a nice touch.” Aziraphale brushed a stray petal off his jacket.

“Well, if they _do_ come back, next time I’ll whisk them off to Siberia or something.”

“They _won’t_ come back.” Aziraphale spoke more confidently than he truly felt. He didn’t, however, feel as worried as he’d been at first. Not with Crowley by his side.

They could handle whatever the bothersome humans got up to.

Or so he hoped.

♦

Everything returned to normal for a few days, but then Crowley strolled down from the bedroom late one morning to find Aziraphale on the phone, his voice pure agitation.

“No, I have nothing to say to you. Leave me _alone_!” He slammed down the receiver. 

The phone immediately rang again, and someone knocked loudly on the front door. Aziraphale took the receiver off the hook. “Been like this for hours.” He glared at Crowley. “About time you got up.”

“Now, now, don’t take it out on _me_. What’s this all about?”

“Apparently I am on that…that—“ Aziraphale pointed to the computer on his desk. “That netinter thing.”

“ _Internet_.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the pounding on the door instantly stopped. “Hope whoever that was enjoys Brisbane this time of year.” He stared at the ancient computer. “You can’t even _get_ the Internet on that thing.”

“Well, that’s what the first caller told me. Something about a tube, and a motion picture of sorts, it sounded like, showing that gang in the park, with their stakes suddenly turning into flowers.”

Crowley tried to make sense out of this, which meant working through Aziraphale’s limited knowledge of current culture. _Tube. Motion picture._ “Aha.” _YouTube_. “One of them must have been filming that night.”

“I didn’t see any camera equipment.”

“Of course not.” Crowley pulled out his smartphone. “This is how small they are now.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” Crowley went over to a small table in the office. He hadn’t much in the way of belongings, but one thing he brought with him when he’d moved in was a laptop, as there was no way he’d ever touch that dinosaur on Aziraphale’s desk.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” He magicked the machine on, instantly connected to the Internet despite the fact Aziraphale didn’t have it in the shop. He was a demon, after all – he knew how to get Internet access whether there was service or not.

Nothing ever took long for him to find on there, either. A quick search for a video using the words ‘stake’, ‘flowers’, ‘Kensington Gardens’, and ‘vampire’ brought up the one he wanted.

Aziraphale leaned over his shoulder to watch. It was short – no more than ten seconds – but it clearly showed Aziraphale standing there as the gang moved in, arms upraised holding stakes, and the next split-second, holding the bouquets. Then it went blank.

“ _A.Z. Fell, Soho bookshop owner,_ “ Crowley read from the description. “ _Human, or paranormal entity? Contact us for proof this is unedited footage._ “ He leaned back. “Well, that’s an improvement over ‘vampire’.”

“How bothersome.” Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps I ought to move the shop.”

“Don’t even _think_ of doing that.”

“But surely people will come to investigate – perhaps even the police.”

“We are _not_ going to move.” Crowley shut the laptop. “I just got used to living here.” He stood, moving closer to Aziraphale. He touched his face, gently stroking the angel’s cheek. “I like being here.”

“Do you? I wasn’t sure.” Aziraphale hesitated. “You didn’t seem terribly happy, at least in the mornings. You’re always so touchy then. I thought – well, it had something to do with sleeping in the same bed, and that you wanted to stop.”

“Ah. I didn’t.” Crowley had been meaning to say something about the reason for his morning attitude, but what with one thing and another, simply hadn’t got round to it yet. “I _like_ sleeping next to you, Angel. It’s the damn _cold_ I can’t stand.”

“Oh. Is that all?” Aziraphale’s whole face lit up. “Are you sure?”

“’Course I’m sure.” Crowley leaned in to kiss him full on the lips. “ _Very_ sure.”

Aziraphale had closed his eyes at the touch. He let out a sigh. He opened his eyes, grasped Crowley’s face, and returned the kiss more thoroughly, fully, and with more enthusiasm than Crowley had ever felt from him before.

When they parted, Crowley said, “That was different.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Different in a good way, I trust?”

“Definitely.” Crowley glanced back at the laptop. “Now then, about this new spot of trouble you seem to have gotten into…let’s see what I can do to fix it.”

♦

“You’re always looking out for me,” Aziraphale said over breakfast the next day. For the first time since he’d moved in, Crowley had risen in time for a morning meal. Which probably had a great deal to do with the new, modern, and very efficient heating system that Aziraphale had miracled into his shop the night before.

“Of course I look out for you,” Crowley replied, sipping a cup of cocoa. “You _need_ looking after.”

“I know. It seems a tad one-sided at times. I want to do something for _you_ at least once in a while.”

“You did. It’s warm and toasty in here.”

“Not that. I mean, you’re always saving me from my own foolhardy ways. If I had done what I ought to have done – falsified the records to ensure no one got suspicious about me – none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have had to go to so much trouble to set it aright.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Wasn’t that hard. Just had to create those records, and wipe a few memories.”

“Yes, but the motion picture –“

“ _Video_.”

“Right. The solution you came up with for the, er, _video_ – that must have taken some effort.”

“Not really. Well, all right, maybe a bit. Did take a while to create that big archive of you performing stage magic.” He grinned. “Even harder to make you look brilliant at it.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I’m not _that_ awful.”

“You _are_.”

“Well, anyway, the…videos you put on that…um…on the computer are quite delightful.”

“Shows you turning stakes into flowers like _that_.” Crowley snapped his fingers. “And plenty more amazing tricks. And that’s all anyone will believe they are now – including the one from Kensington Gardens. Merely a fancy trick by a very accomplished magician. You won’t be bothered again.”

At that moment, the shop phone rang.

“Who would call at this hour?” Aziraphale picked it up. “Yes? Yes, this is he. You want what? _Really_?”

He cupped his hand over the receiver and said to Crowley, “This fellow wants to hire me to perform my magic act.”

“Oh, no. No, no _no_.” Crowley leapt up.

“But it will be _fun!_ ”

Crowley grabbed the receiver. “Sorry, he’s retired.” He replaced it and gave Aziraphale a steely look. “ _No_.”

“But –“

“It would bring _attention_.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “When are you going to learn to stay out of trouble?” He was the demon, after all. If either of them should get into trouble, it ought to be _him_. Somehow, it never turned out that way.

“You’re no fun.” Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose it’s for the best.”

Crowley could tell he was disappointed. He had that wistful, longing expression that got to Crowley every time.

“Yeah, yeah, tell you what. How about if you practice your act here, in the shop, when it’s closed. I’ll be the audience.”

Aziraphale’s face instantly brightened. “You will? I can? You won’t mind?”

“Not if it makes you happy.” Crowley rose from the dining table and pulled Aziraphale down with him onto the sofa. “That’s all I want.”

“So do I. That is, I want _you_ to be happy.” Aziraphale lay his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Shut up,” Crowley said. Though he said it in the softest, gentlest of tones with all the affection and love he could muster. “And just keep the heat up at night.”

He had a feeling that one way or another, Aziraphale could find a way to do that.


End file.
